


If Happiness Was a Coat

by MistyBeethoven



Category: Our Gang, The Little Rascals, The Little Rascals Christmas Special
Genre: Adulthood, Childhood, Christmas, Christmas Presents, Comfort Sex, F/M, Goodbyes, Housekeepers, I saw mommy kissing Santa Claus, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Lap Sex, Loss, MILFs, Melancholy, Older Man/Younger Woman, Parent-Child Relationship, Penis In Vagina Sex, Religious Content, Sadness, Serious, Single Parents, Widowed, the depression, weariness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:53:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27976920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistyBeethoven/pseuds/MistyBeethoven
Summary: The mother of two little boys called Spanky and Porky finds a way to say thanks to a street corner Santa for the gift of a new coat and a toy train.A reflection on loneliness, aging, faith, childhood, sadness, sex and adulthood all inspired by a beloved seventies Romeo Muller written Christmas cartoon featuring Our Gang.
Relationships: Marjorie/Santa Claus, Spanky's Mom/Santa Claus





	If Happiness Was a Coat

**Author's Note:**

> I think I might have ripped something off here. This seems vaguely familiar. Still, I've had this in my head since last Christmas, so maybe I've been living with it so long now it just feels like it already exists.
> 
> Anyway, I first saw the special which inspired this, when I was a very young girl. It was my first introduction to the song "The First Noel" and it was always a favorite. Being very close to my own mother it held a special place in my heart. Other than that bit of frustration when the train gets stolen, that is.
> 
> However, my last watch of it struck me with the division between the lives of the adults and those of the children. And how that realization seemed to pass between "Santa" and Marjorie and a brief little flirtation.
> 
> This piece was born from that.
> 
> I'll dedicate it to my own mother, whom preferred chocolate to sex, but whom raised her two daughters with love, faith and wisdom. Thanks mom! Merry Christmas! :D <3

She leads him to the bedroom and all the while she's thinking how unlike her this is. She hasn't been with a man since Daniel passed away and before that she had been a shy, pure thing, keeping herself until she was married to know a man in a way that the other girls used to do easily and then pretend that they didn't. Now she is bringing a stranger to her bedroom, while her two little boys fall asleep in a room down the hall and wait for Santa to come.

Only Santa is here with her _now_ , his coarse hand in hers as she shows him the way.

She wonders what has made this feel so rough and unlike her Daniel's. Was it the cold? Standing on the street corner and ringing a bell for hours, getting bunions, or onions as Porky called them, on his feet. Perhaps it was the metal of the bell that they had given him and then told him to ring for hours, persuading those without much money themselves to give what they could not spare away.

Even more likely it has been years upon years of the type of labour Daniel never did.

"You don't have to," the man dressed up as Santa Claus says, knowing that she is trying to repay him for the coat and the return of an expensive Blue Comet train.

But he can't even bring himself to say _what_ she's about to do...

Give him her tired body, offer him her sex, because he made her children happy and helped make her warm.

Only it's not only that.

She can't bring herself to tell him that she _needs_ this, this act of love, to create a warmth from the inside to go with what he has brought to her body outside.

"I _want_ to," is all she can bring herself to say and then shocks herself with the truth of it being said outloud.

Inside of the bedroom she once shared instead of keeping achingly alone, she can't face him as he starts to remove the Santa suit and she in turn takes off her own dress, until she is only in her slip, formerly white but now made dingy with time and overuse. She can see him reflected in the mirror of the dresser she is standing before, however. She watches him in silence as behind her he takes off the red jacket and pants, the belt and boots and finally, at last, the hat and the beard. A thick layer of stubble was hidden beneath the fake long beard and a thinning patch of hair is what lay beneath the hat.

He's not a horrible looking man, resembling the best friend of her father. No longer young, neither is she, his body is short but strong in the way that most _workers_ are.

There had been a time when she was not one of those.

Housewife and mother had once been her only professions until she had been made a widow and found cleaning house for a woman named Mrs. Vanderhoff the only option for making ends meet.

Marjorie cannot decide if God hates or loves her sometimes. He has a habit of throwing both tragedy and blessing at her feet to trip over, leaving her confused like most of His children these days.

She thinks of a time when she was a child (not too long ago for memory) and remembers when she had wondered if Santa was real or not. Now she finds herself asking the same question about God and finding it not so easy a thing to answer. She thinks of the depression and the children out on the street starving and the answer then seems like no.

Looking at her two boys, still being fed, their stomachs round and beautiful, she feels like the answer cannot be anything but yes.

Singing "The First Noel" together with the children and the stranger she is about to have sex with it once again felt closer to being the truth.

She does not know anymore.

So the safest answer seems to be, "I _hope_ that He is."

Tonight, just as when they had sung that carol, Santa Claus is equally as real, now beardless and sitting on the edge of her bed, waiting for her. She goes to him, having born two children but feeling very much like a child now in her own way. He senses it, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her closer to him. Instinctively, she lowers her head to kiss him, realizing that this will also be the first man she has kissed since Danny. His breath tastes as rough as his voice. There is smoke coating the insides of his mouth and his tongue tastes of whiskey and old regrets. 

As the kiss lasts longer, she knows that she will not become one of these latter things in his experienced life.

He had craved for her since they had been in the childrens' playhouse together. She had sensed it in his glances and smile. And now he shall have her.

Tonight Santa Claus gets what he wants too.

His erection is against her as she shimmies free of her panties. It feels thicker than her husband's, longer and more insistent. Daniel's passion was very much as caged as he was: sitting in his office, day in and day out, until the crash. This man before her, gripping her with a strength that his age and size would not confess, is a man of the street where walls do not exist. She can tell he has taken what he has wanted and counted himself among the free and tonight she feels blessed to be the object of his desire: a widowed mother of two, a housekeeper whose hands are becoming as rough as his and who feels so hopelessly tired these long days.

As the hardened length presses into her, and she recognizes the difference between it and the man's she lost for a second time, she now also realizes that she has two penises to compare. Having only ever had one lover, now there will be two and she can think of them on cold and lonely nights when there will be none lying beside her.

He is pulling her closer and in a shock she realizes that he has entered her. There is no pain, as there was when she gave her virginity to her husband on their wedding night, only a pleasant consuming, one that sets off an arousal that had been stifled by her anxiety. Now with the hard part for her over and his hard part within, she can focus on more important matters.

Like the giving to him some pleasure in return for the coat and the train.

 _"Does it make me a whore?"_ she asks herself. _"Am I no better doing this than the women I sometimes pass on my way home after a long day spent cleaning?"_

Often her mind has gone to the question if they make more than she does and receive more pleasure in the performance of it. Do their backs hurt from the bending? Do their hands and wrists hurt from the seemingly endless rubbings? There are a hundred questions she shouldn't be thinking and an envy she hates herself for. But no; in the end, she is not a prostitute. She could not do what they do every night without love.

And that is when she realizes that she must love this man inside of her just a little to let him come inside at all.

He made her children happy. Something their father was not thinking of when he threw himself from the office window which had been his only source of freedom for years.

She begins to move on the stranger's lap, feeling his hands moving to her ass to squeeze the full cheeks. Both sensations, the sliding of his cock and cupping of her ass, create a feeling of wonderful pleasure. Her clit responds in welcomed bliss and when the man brings his head to her breasts to kiss and suckle a nipple through the old satiny fabric, she moans in pleasure, having forgotten how _good_ it can feel.

Her movement intensifies and she slowly realizes that she is doing most of the work, except for the occassional thrust upwards from the street corner Santa. Perhaps he is too tired, she vaguely thinks. Or maybe he just enjoys the feeling of her bouncing on his lap. She sees herself as an overgrown visitor to the man once dressed in red, the sitting on his lap having turned hopelessly adult, her childhood now sucessfully in the past.

It's coming.

She feels it.

It's arrival is marked with one push which the weary man seems to center all of his force into, and before she knows it, she is crying out loud as her body acts accordingly to her orgasm clenching around a cock which soon starts its own climax. His release comes with a low groan, so different from her loud almost agonized cry.

Daniel never once made her come so violently, so blissfully, Marjorie thinks to herself and it feels like a betrayal. As if to make the stranger pay, she bites his shoulder harshly, an act also to keep from screaming once again and waking her sleeping children. The skin with her teeth sunk into it tenses but then relaxes until a calm overtakes them both, the act now over and some peace akin to that which the angels once told shepherds of so long ago claiming them both.

They hold each other for a few seconds and she kisses the top of his balding head before slipping herself off from him and beginning to redress.

"Is it yours?" she asks, horribly, casually, about his suit while she hears him doing the same act of dressing behind her.

"No, I have to give it back. Right now, technically, it's stolen."

"You can put yourself on your _own_ naughty list," she teases shyly as she turns around, ready to face him again.

He stares at her with his heavily lined face and smiles at her like a little boy, "If I'm there, why did I just receive such a good gift?"

She blushes and looks down at the floor, his own gift to her trailing down her thigh.

* * *

As the one last act they will ever commit together, they help place the rest of the childrens' presents underneath the tree. Socks and used books, a few wooden soldiers...

But nothing as beautiful as the Blue Comet train she bought and he saved.

This done she walks him to the door, where they kiss for the final time, before he steps into the night.

She wonders if she will recognize him should they pass in the street. He looks a great deal like many men these days, old before their time and weighted down with compassion. For that is the weight of kindness: you take it upon yourself, all the sorrows of the beaten and the mournful.

As she stares at his back, she wonders how much was the weight of the child Mary had given birth to centuries before. And how great was her grief on the day he had been stolen from her, only thirty two years later. Heavy as he was, she must have been devastated by the loss of such a weight from her life.

The mother looks behind her to Spanky and Porky's (her sweet little George and Eugene's) room and prays to the God she hopes exists to keep them both safe and to bestow upon them long lives filled with loves that never leave them.

Santa is already down the stairs when she turns back. She is left at a loss what to say to him, so all she offers is, "Merry Christmas and thank you."

He turns around and smiles again. "Same to you."

It is too painful to watch him walking away from her but she stays, not wanting him to hear the door closing behind him, as so many have probably done in his lifetime. When he has left, without a single turn back towards her, she walks back inside and to her lonely bedroom.

* * *

Spanky watches from the chair he has been hiding behind as his mother slowly walks up the stairs, her feet seeming very heavy.

He stays a few seconds, looking at the presents and then at the front door, where his mom had kissed Santa Claus goodbye, before he hears the door to her room closing and he creeps up the stairs to his own room.

Although he is not certain, the boy thinks he can hear her weeping.

"So did Santa come?" Porky asks as he slips inside.

"No," Spanky lies, not feeling like suffering his younger brother's begging him to go and open them. Not now when his thoughts are all messed up with what he saw and how it has left him feeling.

"What kept you so long then?" Porky asks then, all childish irritation.

"We forgot to put out the milk and cookies, stupid," the eldest brother spits and crawls under the covers.

"O-tay!" Porky squeals.

Lying in his bed, Spanky stares at the ceiling thinking of coats and trains, of Santas whose beards come off and mothers who cry in two ways that feel immessurably different and distanced, like the gap between children and adults themselves. Having glimpsed the last, Spanky feels grateful to be the first and tries to fall asleep, wishing happiness was a coat that his mother could wear when she was sad and not only when she was cold.


End file.
